A Kiss is the Route to your Heart
by chibiness87
Summary: Like all couples, they evolve. One kiss at a time. Sherlock/Molly. Rating changed to T. Now Complete
1. An Accident

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 1** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rated** : K+ (for now. Might change in later chapters.)  
 **Spoilers** : None for this chapter.  
 **Disclaimer** : Not mine.

 **A/N** : I started another multi-chap. D'oh. This is part one of the story I was working on when I wrote a smut story instead. It will have 6 parts. Eventually. Life is completely hectic at the moment. So _of course_ it is the opportune time to start something new. *facepalm*

* * *

 _A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one -_ _Guy de Maupassant_

* * *

The first time he kisses her, it is for a case.

More specifically, it is while he is undercover on a case.

Oh, and he doesn't even know her name.

Yet.

(That will come later.)

The suspect he has been following has turned into the busy pub, and Sherlock finds he is at once in danger of losing sight of him, while also in danger of being made.

So he does what he normally does in situations like this. He keeps to the shadows. Observes from a distance. Pretends he is somewhere, anywhere, else.

He just doesn't realise he is not the only one using this tactic until it is almost too late.

The boyfriend of the sister of the cheating wife of the latest murder victim he has been roped into helping the Yard with (it's a five at best, but he's bored) suddenly turns, and makes his way towards where Sherlock is skulking in the shadows.

He needs a distraction. A diversion.

He looks around him, eyes drinking in all the details as his mind races, searching, searching, sear- there.

In two steps he's by her side, and with a quiet, "Sorry about this," promptly kisses the breath out of the small woman he has spotted who is doing her own impression of a wallflower. He tries to keep it chaste, barely touching her lips with his, but the mere contact still makes the blood sing in his veins, and he presses more firmly against her. His tongue traces the seam of her lips, and he nips at her lower one for a moment before gentling the contact once more.

She gasps against him, hands flailing around her head slightly, completely shocked at his actions. Before she can do anything more, like, for example, slap him, he pulls away.

Her eyes, a deep brown, are wide, and there is a deep flush highlighting her cheeks. Her hair is parted to the side, and he tucks one stand carefully behind her ear, before realising what he has just done. Stepping back quickly, he lets his hand falls to his side.

"What the fu-"

He gives her a small, embarrassed quirk of his lips. "Needed to hide from someone for a moment."

"I, uh…"

She stutters at him, biting her lower lip. The sight does something to him, something he thought he was above (the body is supposed to only be transport for the brain) and he ducks his head. "Sorry about that."

And then he turns, spotting his prey across the floor, heading towards the second exit of the pub. Sherlock silently moves after him, keeping to the shadows as much as he can.

He doesn't think about the press of his lips against the stranger's mouth again.

Well, for about nine hours.

Give or take.

Because, eight hours and fifty three minutes after he leave the bar, deleting all but the most pertinent information, he walks through the doors of the morgue at St Bart's. He is expecting to see Stamford, but is instead met with a pair of intense brown eyes.

The shade reminds him of something, of someone, and he dips into his mind palace trying to place them.

It is only when her hand makes contact with his face that he suddenly remembers.

"You." Ironically, it is her voice that places her, front and centre, back in his mind. He winces.

"Ah."

It is suddenly apparent that this second-first meeting is not a private one when he hears his name being called from behind him. "Sherlock?"

He ignores Lestrade, sure that the detective is wondering just how he has managed to already annoy the specialist registrar that, as far as the detective knows, he has only just met.

"Sherlock? So that's your name?"

Her voice makes that same something from last night wake up in his chest. Soothing and calming and exciting him all at the same time. It is a not altogether unpleasant sensation.

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

She nods. Sighs. Looks down for a moment, then back up. "Molly Hooper."

Some deeply suppressed manners come to the fore, and he sticks his hand out to her. She takes it, wariness easy to read on her face. He tries to calm her with a small smile. "Forgive me. When Stamford said he was getting a new pathologist, I was unaware that it would be a woman."

She bristles. "Why? Because women are meek and shouldn't be doctors?"

Sherlock balks. It is suddenly clear he has said something wrong. "What? No. I am sure that you are more than proficient. Better than your male cohorts, even."

Dr Molly Hooper, her name already being filed away in his mind, says nothing to this, but one eyebrow creeps up in question.

Sherlock sighs. Tilts his head at her. "You're young. Assured. Obviously don't come from money, so mummy and daddy didn't buy you this position. And women always have to work harder than men in science fields because men in authority are so outdated that even in today's society most cannot admit that a woman might actually be smarter than they are. You worked hard and it paid off. You graduated, what, top of your class? Honours at the very least. Had pick of the top pathology positions in the country. Chose Bart's because of its reputation of working with the cops, and you like big cities. Strange, for someone born in the country. But you grew to like the city life at university. You like mysteries. Like solving puzzles. It's why you chose pathology in the first place, right? The mystery of death."

Her eyes are wide, shocked, but her voice lacks the timid tone he thought it would have. There is something there, though. Something he can't quite name, even as she asks, "How did you…"

He smiles. "It's what I do."

"And what's that, Mr Holmes?" The unknown quantity in her voice comes to him in a moment of clarity. Awe. It is awe that he is hearing, and his heart stutters a beat in his chest.

"Solve mysteries."

Dr Hooper blinks at him. And he finds himself unable to stop the next words escaping his mouth. "And please. Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm. I have a feeling we'll be seeing much more of each other, Dr Hooper."

"Molly." She ducks her head for a second, before meeting his gaze with her own. "You can call me Molly."

They smile at each other, and then the moment is completely destroyed when Lestrade clears his throat. Loudly.

"Great. Glad that's sorted. Can we get back to the bloody case now?"

Sherlock shoots Dr Hoop- Molly – another small smile. And with that, they get back to work.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	2. An Apology

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, Chapter 2: An apology,** by **chibiness87  
Spoilers: **2.01 Scandal in Belgravia  
 **Rating** : T.  
 **Disclaimer** : I still (do not) own Jack.

 **A/N** : So this week has been a good week. I had a lovely holiday. And my sister's wedding was amazing. And I finished my essays! With a whole 7 hours to spare! And to celebrate, I bring you chapter 2. Tis not beta'd. And seems a bit disjointed... IDK. It's how it wanted to be written.

* * *

 _If fear didn't exist, I'd run up to you, kiss you and tell you that I love you. Anon._

* * *

The second time he kisses her, it is an apology.

More accurately, the second time he actually makes contact with her skin with his lips it is an apology.

But it is not the second time he kisses her.

At least, not in his mind.

She's in there, you see.

In his mind.

And, when he finds his days are bad, or hard, or slow, he finds himself drifting into his Mind Palace, and into her room. Because while other people in his life may haunt the hallways of his mind, she gets her own room. The first time he went in, curious as to what he could possibly give such significance as to warrant its own door, she was wearing the outfit she had on that night at the bar. Low slung top and tight jeans, and hair softly falling over one shoulder. He had inhaled, and she had turned, a shy glint in her eye.

It is how he likes to think of her, when he knows he shouldn't be thinking of her at all.

He can still taste the cherry in her lip balm she had been wearing that night instead of any lipstick.

He never tells her where he goes, those times he drifts in her presence. Can't bear to be faced with the look of disgust he knows she will give him when he tells her he thinks about her like that.

So he never tells, and eventually she stops asking.

* * *

They fall into an easy rhythm, working together. After a brief spell of a few days of awkwardness, they even manage to get past the whole 'so yeah, I totally stuck my tongue down your throat and wanted to take you home when I didn't even know your name' thing.

Well, he thinks she gets past it.

He has his aforementioned Mind Palace room, where he can have that kiss on repeat as much as he likes.

Same difference, surely.

He still makes her blush, sometimes. Still makes her stammer.

He never admits it to anyone, but he sort of likes it.

Her stammer.

It's the look she gets in her eyes when she does it. Like for one moment she's right there with him, back in that crowded pub, pressed up against the wall while he tries not to lose himself in the softness of her skin.

But then she'll blink, or look away, and the moment is broken. Lost.

He's never brave enough to bring it up.

No matter how much he wants to.

He never realises it is a glint in his own eye that makes her stammer in the first place.

* * *

They move on. Become colleagues. Eventually friends. He trusts her with his life, which is no small feat for him.

And then he trusts her with his past.

The truth about the drugs and silence they provide.

And when she asks, hand holding his gently, eyes tracing the crook of his arm, if he still feels like that, still feels the need for the drugs coursing through his veins, he says no.

And, for the first time in his life, he means it.

Because he has his own brand of drug, tucked away in a small corner of his mind, no needle required.

And then one day, when he goes to the lab on an actual case, his new… acquaintance at his side, she is wearing some complete monstrosity of a cardigan. White and cheerful and covered in cherries… It doesn't suit her at all. And paired with the lipstick she has obviously just applied, well, something inside him wakes up and growls.

Because that is not the Molly Hooper he remembers.

It is not the Molly Hooper he has spent the morning, deep in his Mind Palace, watching.

Kissing.

It is not the Molly Hooper he wants.

So he lashes out.

He's a bit of a git like that.

But Molly just blinks, takes it in stride, and brings him his coffee as ordered.

He knows what she was asking, of course. He's not stupid. But he absolutely refuses to entertain _that_ idea when she is wearing, well, the visual reminder of her taste as he pressed her against the wall and tried to make friends with her tonsils.

He's not proud of his reaction.

But it is what it is.

* * *

Life continues.

He has a… companion, now. He won't go as far as a friend. Not yet.

He has his cases, and his blogger, and his experiments.

He has Gavin or George or Graham, and John, and Mrs Hudson.

And he has Molly.

Morgue Molly, who, he's sure, is continuing to punish him for a past crime he cannot remember committing by wearing increasingly garish clothing.

Morgue Molly, who is brilliant.

Passionate and determined and even bends the rules and looks the other way when he sneaks leftovers from the fridge in the path lab.

But he also has Mind Molly.

Mind Molly, who lets him rant while he is lost in his Mind, calms him with her vey being.

Mind Molly, who is amazing.

Passionate and determined and even bends the rules of his own Mind Palace by redecorating her room to make it look more like her own.

Mind Molly, whom he still kisses.

Even now.

Even with his latest distraction, the case that just keeps on giving, never mind the whole Moriarty… thing, it is Molly whom his mind seeks out.

Molly whom he wants.

Christmas comes, and with it merriment and gatherings and people. He hates it. Hates it hates it hates it. Hates it with every fibre of his being.

Being forced to engage, to join in, even, just pushes him further into a bad mood.

And then Morgue Molly is walking through his front door.

Only, she's not dressed like Morgue Molly.

She's dressed like Mind Molly.

Tight fitting dress with big loop earrings and hair falling just so.

He wants to kiss her.

Wants to see if she still tastes like the cherries he tastes in his Mind.

But he can't.

Because they don't mean that to each other.

They're over that, right?

After all, she dated his arch nemesis.

He suspects that means she's over him.

So he lashes out.

He's a bit of a git like that.

Only, he's made a mistake.

A big mistake.

A huge, 'holy shit what the fuck have you just done you complete and utter wanker how could you' mistake.

Mind Molly is biting her lip, tears brimming in her eyes, hand trembling even as she clutches her wine glass tighter.

Except, no.

No, this is not Mind Molly.

This is Morgue Molly.

Morgue Molly, who wouldn't hurt a fly.

Morgue Molly, who he thought was over him.

He blinks, takes a step forward.

Somewhere in the back of his brain he knows she is speaking, but he is too caught up in his own horror to hear the words she is throwing at him.

He forces words past the panic which is consuming his brain.

Begging her for forgiveness.

Bending slightly, he wants to press his lips to hers. Find out if her taste is still the same, all these years later. But he knows he has completely lost that right.

Instead, he presses a kiss to her cheek, feeling her still tremble under his touch.

Her eyes are big and wide, something in their depths he can't work out.

He wishes her Merry Christmas, unaware his own eyes are telling their own story.

And then his phone lets out _that_ tone, and everything proceeds to get a little messy after that.

* * *

Thoughts?


	3. A Farewell

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 3: A Farewell** , by **chibiness87  
Spoilers: **up to end of 2.03 The Reichenbach Fall  
 **Rated: T  
Disclaimer: **Still own Jack. (This is still a lie.)

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay folks. I struggled with this one. I have about five different half written versions of this scenario written, and that normally doesn't happen with me. Thank you for all those who have taken the time to leave a review – I am woefully behind on replying to those that I can, but I do read and appreciate every comment I get.

* * *

 _Do you find out what a kiss is for_  
 _right before you die_  
Will Dailey – _Rise_

* * *

The third time he kisses her, it is a farewell.

More accurately, the third time he kisses her it is in desperation and a little bit of fear and he needs the strength only she can provide to do what must be done before he can make his farewell.

Not that he will ever tell her that.

Sentiment, and all.

He finds her in the room they have selected to use if the worst should happen.

The worst, in this case, being he has to leap to his death from the roof of the building they were first introduced in.

Not met, but if he thinks about where they met he'll think about _how_ they met, and then he won't stop thinking about how they met, and it is very likely he is about to leave her, leave _everyone_ behind, and if he thinks about that night too much he won't be able to do what he knows (suspects) must be done.

He doesn't announce his presence; he has never really needed to. Not with her.

She always sees him, even when he doesn't see himself.

It is a talent she has; one that he has taken for granted, but now, oh, now, it is one that he relishes.

And, despite what she thinks, what she claims, he has always seen her too.

He's just so incredibly glad that the way he has treated her, has always, _always_ treated her, has done the one thing he had hoped it would do.

Molly Hooper is invisible to all except him.

It is the only way he could think of to keep her safe, and, if dear old Jim is anything to go by, it has worked in spades.

Don't they tell children to look out for the quiet ones?

Molly Hooper could put mice to shame.

It is, he thinks, one of her best talents.

And now, she is standing next to a body that could have been him, preparing to push it out of a window because he had asked her to.

Kill him to save him.

A sacrifice in place of a suicide.

And people think he doesn't know how to love.

Except, Molly knows. Molly, with her hair pulled back in her usual fashion, with her cherry cardigan and her lab coat. Molly, who can see him.

See everything about him.

Except for the thing that matters most.

It is her who finally breaks the silence, beginning to move towards him where he is hovering in the doorway like some scared child. "Sherlock."

"I just… I, uh," he tries, and then stops. Because this is new. This stuttering. He doesn't know what to make about the fact he can no longer form words around her.

After all, what can you possibly say to the one person who you trust enough to kill you?

Fake kill you.

She is good and pure and innocent, and he is about to make into a liar and a fraud, and god help him, but he would do it again in a heartbeat.

And the annoying thing is, he knows she would let him.

She has made it across the room now, standing in front of him, pulling one of his hands up to rest between her palms.

He still can't look at her.

She must be able to read him (she has always been able to read him) because she squeezes his hand in hers, and tells him softly, "You'll be ok."

He doesn't know if she's trying to convince herself or him, but he takes solace from the words regardless.

Quirking his lips up at the corner in a semblance of a smile, he sees her try to return it.

It is a small, fragile thing, but it is there. Drawing strength from its presence, he turns his hand so he can interlock her fingers with his for a moment.

"You'll be ok," she says again, this time with more belief in her tone.

He finally dares to look at her (he's always such a coward when it comes to her) and she is staring at him with a film of tears in her eye like it is the last time she will see him.

He can't really blame her for that, because there is a chance, however small, that it might happen, and that this might actually really be it.

It is a thought he has not allowed himself to think of before now, and he wants to hate her a little for making him think it now.

But no, he could never hate Molly Hooper.

Never, never.

She means too much to him.

(She means everything.)

He wants to tell her this. Wants to give her the words, the sentiment that he feels.

Even though he has tried for years not to.

But instead, right now, all he can do is look at her and hold her hand.

He is not everything she thought he was.

He's not even everything _he_ thought he was.

He feels like the world's biggest failure.

The biggest fraud.

His hand comes up without permission, sliding around her nape to hold her head in place so he can rest the weight of his own on hers for a moment. His voice, when he eventually speaks, is soft. Broken.

"Molly Hooper," he begins. And then he stops. Takes a step back but keeps his hand where is lies. Sighs. Takes a breath, trying to find the words. But they just don't, won't come, and he simply stares at her, tracing over her features with his eyes, committing them to memory.

If he is allowed to take one image with him when he goes over, he wants it to be this one. Stood with the one person in his whole world who has never once questioned or queried him. The one person who was always there, _always_ , even when he knows he should have been left alone in the dark.

"Sherlock…"

Tears are still welling in her eyes, and the sight does something to what he suspects might be his heart. He tries to speak, but there is a clogging sensation in his throat, and it is all he can do to draw her nearer to him, trying to infuse meaning through touch alone.

She shuffles closer, one hand coming up to land on his chest directly above his heart, and he knows she will be able to feel the increased rate. He takes a breath, filling his senses with her scent, ducking down to be able to breathe it in easier.

She lets out a quiet moan at the move, and he feels his final wall crumble into dust.

And then he is kissing her. Kissing her like she is oxygen in a vacuum, like she's an oasis in a desert, like she is the only thing keeping him sane, and all the other clichés that his mind can think of. And then he feels her kiss him back, and she does something with her tongue which makes him growl, and every thought just stops, and there is just _Molly Molly Molly_. He turns them both, presses her against the wall, hand in her hair, and it's like the first time they kissed all over again. Only this time he is not hiding from a perp, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt who he is kissing. And he's _not_ sorry. Not even a little bit. Because this time he is seconds, minutes away from a death he doesn't know if he will survive, and if he only has this moment left in the world, he's going to be selfish and take what he has always denied.

Molly, it seems, is completely ok with this idea, if the way she is pressing closer to him, tugging on his hair and stroking his tongue with her own is any indication.

His lungs are screaming at him, and he knows he needs to stop this before he can't. If he continues to kiss her he won't stop kissing her and how will he be able to protect her from everything that he is if everyone knows just what she means to him.

So he presses his lips to hers firmly for just a heartbeat more, before tearing his mouth away.

They stand there for a long moment, panting at each other, trying to get their breathing back under some form of control. Her eyes are wide and her lips are swollen and her hair is in complete disarray.

She's beautiful.

She has always been beautiful.

Maybe, one day, he'll tell her that.

But not today.

Closing his eyes, he leans forward and presses his forehead to hers for a moment.

"Thank you. For everything." The words are whispered, gasped out while he still tries to remember how to breathe properly. It is an innate skill, one that is mastered at birth, for god's sake; how can one moment, one kiss, make such a simple thing be so complex?

She is the first to recover enough to speak. "You should go."

There is still an edge of desperation in his tone which he doesn't know if he likes or not. "Molly."

She smiles at him, and he feels his heart stutter. Goddammit, that was not supposed to happen. "It'll be fine."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Simple." And then she smiles at him, and his heart stutters again. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

The words create a soothing balm he didn't know he needed on his soul. It is one he will carry with him for the years that follow, not that he knows that right now.

Right now, it is all he can do to force one foot in front of the other.

John is waiting for him in the lab, and he has a call to make.

So he sighs. Drinks in the sight of her one last time, before he pivots on his heel and sweeps out of the room, long coat billowing behind him in his wake, and the taste of her on his tongue.

As he stands on the parapet later, it is this taste that gives him the strength to plummet to his supposed death.

Maybe, one day, he will find the strength to tell her that.

But he doubts it.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	4. A Defeat

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 4** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rated** : T  
 **Spoilers** : 3.01 The Empty Hearse.  
 **Disclaimer** : Not mine.

 **A/N** : Sorry for the delay. Thank you to all those who are sticking with me and continuing to read. Your support means a great deal to me.

* * *

 _It started as butterflies, but now it just hurts. - Unknown_

* * *

The fourth time he kisses her, it is in defeat.

More precisely, the fourth time he kisses her, it is an acknowledgement of defeat.

Not hers.

His.

Not that he will ever tell her that.

He has been back in the land of the living for close to fifty hours before he makes his way to St Bart's. After he sees John and meets Mary, and then gets his nose checked out, and sees Graham, and Mrs Hudson, after he has seen all the people he needs to see, he finally gets to see the one person he _wants_ to see.

Small distinction, but an important one.

And because he is Sherlock Holmes and still a bit of a git, he decides to hide in the woman's locker room until she comes off shift.

It wouldn't do for someone to see him skulking about in the hallway and cause a commotion and give the game away, now would it?

So he hides in the shadow like the phantom he supposes he still is (he resurrection, as it were, still mostly under wraps) until he sees her come through the door.

He takes half a step towards her, he can't help it; it has been over two years since he's seen her and he has _missed_ her.

The way she smiles and the way she ducks her head and the way she smells and the way she cannot for the life of her dress in clothes that suit her (he is not even going to start thinking about _that_ dress) missed her.

The intensity to which he has missed her, it is visceral.

She glances in the mirror that hangs in her locker (one she had put there on _his_ insistence after telling her 'you never know who's waiting to sneak up behind you once your back is turned, always check the mirror before you do anything else') and gasps.

Her hand flies to her mouth in shock, her eyes widening. (She has always been an open book to him.)

"Sherlock?" Her hand falls away from her mouth, her voice is a timid whisper, eyes darting around the room, making sure they are alone.

He smiles slightly. "Hello Molly."

"What are you… are you safe?" She takes a step closer to him. Her voice strong, she asks, "What do you need?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. I'm safe." Widening his smile, he tells her, "I'm back."

"Back?" Her eyes are lightening, the worry lines easing from her face, a glimpse of a smile on her own face now.

Sherlock shrugs. "Well. Almost back. One last piece of the puzzle, and then it's all over."

"Oh my god. Does John know?"

Sherlock gives her a wry grin, pointing to the bridge of his nose. "Yes. John knows."

"That… Sherlock, that's great. Well. No. Not about John punching you in the nose part. But… oh, you know what I mean."

She smiles, beams really, and he feels a band he didn't even know existed release its tension, and he feels like he can breathe for the first time in months. Years, even. Ever since he kissed her goodbye in a forgotten room upstairs before throwing himself off the roof.

The light catches her hand, and, with no warning at all, the band snaps back into place.

Tighter than before, suffocating him. All thoughts of happiness and relief leave his mind, and all he can focus on is her hand.

Because there is a ring on the third finger of Molly Hooper's left hand.

A diamond ring.

An engagement ring.

An engagement ring that has been given to her by someone that is not him.

Molly Hooper has gotten engaged to someone that is not him.

Suddenly, he is angry. How long did it take her to forget him? A month? A week? Less?

He has been running all over the world, dismantling the biggest crime network he has ever come across, and Molly Hooper, the one person he trusts beyond all others, the one person that _matters_ beyond all others, didn't even have the courtesy to wait for him to return?

She's quirked an eyebrow at him somewhere along this thought, and is now reaching for him.

The ring hand is reaching for him and he cannot, will not let that abomination touch him.

He can't.

Flicking the collar of his coat up, he brushes past her.

Voice hard now, he says, "Just wanted to let you know I was around."

He doesn't look at her as he storms past.

"Sherlock?" Her voice is full of confusion and concern, but he can't stop.

"Laters, Molly."

(Even he doesn't need a voice that still sounds suspiciously like John in his head to tell him that whole scene was a _bit not good_.)

He returns to his flat, smiles at his landlady as he makes his way upstairs, and sinks into his chair.

He takes a breath, steeples his hands under his chin, sinks into his Mind Palace, and thinks.

What, exactly, was it about Molly Hooper that caused that reaction? Hasn't he been after her for years to get over the stupid infatuation she has had with him? Surely that now she has someone else, has gotten engaged to someone else, surely that is a good thing?

He can have a pathologist at Bart's who will help him on cases, and now he doesn't have to gently (or not so gently) let her down every few months.

He is not boyfriend material.

They would never work.

He needs to keep her safe.

He cannot let anyone burn the heart out of him.

Because to do so would mean harm to Molly Hooper.

Because Molly Hooper is his heart.

Oh.

Well. Fuck.

Coming out of his Mind Palace, he picks up his phone.

 _If convenient, come to Baker Street tomorrow. 10 am. SH_

He puts down his phone. After a minute, he sighs. Picks it up again.

 _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

And then, because he does not need John or Mary or George but he does need Molly,

 _Please. SH_

He does not hear back from her for a few hours, long enough for him to begin to regret the offer, but not long enough for him to rescind it.

195 minutes and 37 seconds after he sent his last text (not that he's counting) he gets her response.

 _Ok_.

It does not give him much to go on, but at least it is an agreement.

He's going to count that as a win.

She shows up the next morning exactly at 10am, and he smiles at her punctuality. He cannot help the smile from growing when he takes in her truly monstrous scarf. Coming to stand in the middle of the room, he begins formally.

Whereas someone not he might begin with an apology, Sherlock forgoes this and dives straight in.

"Molly. Would you like to solve crimes?"

Only, as he gets to the point of the invitation, she says, "have dinner."

And she says it with such hope in her voice and a glint in her eye that it takes him a moment to realise she has laughed off her own question and is answering his.

He tries (unsuccessfully, it has to be said) to tamper down the disappointment that has risen in him at this loss of opportunity. He's certain, if given just five minutes, he will be able to tell Molly everything that is wrong with the person she has chosen to marry and she will break off the engagement, and life, or this part of his life at least, will be able to go back to normal.

Simple.

Only, as it turns out, not quite so simple.

Because, as it turns out he doesn't get his five minutes because they have fun.

She is impressed with his brain (this is something that does not surprise him) but then he takes her out into the field in the afternoon following Grant's summons and she gives her own opinions and he finds he is impressed with hers (which does).

John's voice is an echo in his ear the whole day (which is annoying) but she has a way of not commenting on his obvious distractions (which is not).

And then they get a call from one of his contacts, and it's a seven at least, and he feels a buzz in veins that this might actually be something. Finally.

The _mind the gap_ sounds out into the hallway, and he glances at Molly, witty comment on his tongue, to find her staring at him in her own mirth. A shot of… _something_ flies through him, and the comment is gone.

They view the footage together, and he was right, this is the start of something, he just doesn't know what yet.

Making their way back downstairs, he offers to take her for chips (he's not hungry but they skipped lunch and what sort of friend would he be if he didn't take her for dinner [and dinner was even her idea at the beginning of the day]) when she stops him.

"Sherlock? What was today about?"

And the questions floors him. Just for a moment. Because while it is true when he says it is to say thank you, it was about so much more.

He tries to tell her without saying the three words that he knows will destroy her, destroy them.

Even he knows not to be that cruel, especially when she has someone else.

So he saves her the heartache he knows he could casue, even as he feels his own heart squeezing in his chest. Tells her she matters the most to him. Hopes she can't read what he is saying to her with those words. Hopes she can.

Her eyes fall to her ring once more, and he knows he has lost.

So he does what he thinks is the right thing to do, and bows out gracefully.

Presses his lips to her cheek for a moment. Wishes her happiness.

Teases her, just to let her know there are no hard feelings.

Pretends he doesn't hear her response.

Pretends his heart isn't breaking in his chest.

He doesn't have a heart in his chest.

It belongs to Molly.

It has always belonged to Molly.

Maybe, one day, he will be able to come to terms with what that actually means.

But he doubts it.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	5. A Desperation

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 5: Desperation,** by **chibiness87  
Rated**: T  
 **Spoilers** : 4.03 The Final Problem  
 **Disclaimer** : Still not mine

 **A/N:** Yes. It's another post 4.03 scene. Yes, I have written more of these that I think is actually healthy. No, I'm not going to stop. Yes, I should be doing a number of other things instead of writing this fic. Oh well. Thank you for all the support. I will get around to replying to those leaving signed reviews, promise. ANGST alert. I would say I'm sorry… but I'd be lying.

* * *

 _Kiss me until I forget how terrified I am of everything wrong in my life – Beau Taplin_

* * *

The fifth time he kisses her, it is in desperation.

More precisely, it is in desperation and fear and holy fucking Christ you almost died and I could have lost you horror.

He kisses her with no barriers, knows she can read everything he is feeling, and not caring.

Not even a little bit.

(Not anymore.)

* * *

The clock continues to tick down, his sister and Moriarty taking it in turns to torment him while he tries with everything in him to get Molly to say the three words that will save her life. Because it may have taken him close to a decade, a faked death, a failed engagement, a faked engagement, multiple attempts on his life, a murder, an exile, and multiple close calls with drugs, but he now understands what people mean about not realising what they have until it is too late.

It is not too late. Not yet. But if she doesn't say those words it will be, and just the thought of that has had him on the cusp of a panic attack for the past two minutes. Not that he can show her that in any way, least it cause his sister to blow up the one person in the world whom he honestly, truly loves.

But Molly has always been the one person to surprise him, and today is no different.

" _You_ say it. Go on. You say it first."

"What?"

"Say it. Say it like you mean it."

And he stares at her projected image on the screen like she can see him, absolutely flummoxed.

How, exactly, does one pretend not to love someone to pretend to love someone and tell them that they love them without the other person not picking up on the deception that is not a deception?

He has absolutely no idea.

But it is Molly, so he has to try something.

"I-I… I love you."

No. Wrong. Sounds too forced, she'll see through him in an instant. So he tries again. Softer this time. Whispered like she's right there, and it's just the two of them, and this isn't some sort of crazy test to prove he has a heart in his chest after all.

"I love you."

And the truth, the heart-breaking truth he lets out with those words makes him blink. John once said he could act his way into a Shakespeare production at The National Theatre if he wanted to, but there has always been one person who has seen through his acts and his plays and read the real story underneath.

Molly Hooper now knows his truth, and suddenly he _gets_ it.

The words _are_ different when they're true. Molly was smart enough to know that without having to say them aloud.

But, more than anything, more than his next breath, he wants her to say them back.

Wants her to mean them.

 _Wants_ her to love him.

Even if he ends up dying today, he wants to know that, somehow, he has someone out there who loves him. Not despite of who he is, but because of it.

That it might just save her life is just an added bonus at this point.

The clock continues to tick down, and he finds himself staring at the screen, eyes wide and barely breathing.

She still hasn't said it back.

Why hasn't she said it back?

She needs to… her life is in danger, she'll die and he'll have to watch her die and he can't. Can'tcan'tcant. Can't lose her like this. Can't watch her _die_ like this.

Not because of him.

He remembers he once told Irene Adler that he doesn't beg.

He's begging now.

Desperation and pleading and sod his fucking sister's rules, he's one heartbeat away from demanding she tell him to save her life when he sees her bring the phone to her lips.

"I love you."

Soft and aching and confused, the tone doesn't matter.

She has said it back, and she is still alive, and everything, everything will be ok.

When it comes down to it, it is not emotional context that is his destruction.

It is his hope.

* * *

He is back in London for a full day before he gets up the courage to seek her out. Part of him knows she must be aware of his return to the city, possibly even some of what occurred, but he has been to unsure, too chicken shit to find her when he is still so raw from it all.

He thinks he has it together, at least enough to get through the conversation he knows they must have, but when he sees her in the morgue, his mouth speaks before he is sure he is ready.

"Molly."

His voice comes from the shadow like a phantom, and she jumps slightly. He sees her glance up for a moment as he approaches her workbench, before her gaze falls away. He pretends his heart doesn't clench at the action.

Still not looking at him, she turns back to the cadaver laid out before her. Picking up her scalpel, she methodologically begins the Y incision. He has always loved watching her work, and this is no different.

For a long moment he stands back while she works, taking in the graceful way her hands move, the slight furrow of her brow in concentration, the soft rising and falling of her chest as she breathes. Lost in his revere, he doesn't realise he has fallen silent until, still without looking at him, scalpel now placed down on her tray of instruments she asks, "Did you solve your case?"

He blinks. "Case?"

"Yeah. The one you needed my help with." Unspoken, he hears the rest of her statement in the silence. 'The one you destroyed my heart with.'

"Oh. Uh, I guess?" It comes out more of a question than anything else, and he hates that. But more than that, he hates that she still has yet to actually look at him. A knot of dread is forming in his gut.

Her voice cold, she more states than asks, "So I take it there was a reason for that call."

He nods. Not that she sees it. "Yes."

"Right. Course there was." And now she does look at him, and the pain and anger and confusion is so easy to read in her gaze even an imbecile like Anderson would be able to see it. "Life or death situation, right?"

He dares to take a step closer to her. "Actually…"

"Because even you wouldn't do that to me, would you?" And there is something in her tone that cuts him deeper than any blade ever has, and he takes another step towards her.

The fire in her gaze makes him stop. There is only a matter of feet between them now, but it feels like miles. Hesitantly, aware there could be so many answers and none of them good, he asks, "Do… what?"

But instead of answering, Molly is shaking her head. A tear is brimming at the corner of her eye, and her tone is breaking even as she stares him down. "Except, except you would. Of course you would. I mean, if anyone would, it would be you."

He physically aches with the need to hold her. "Molly…"

The tear breaks free, and she snaps off a glove to brush it away. "You bastard! You knew. You knew how I feel, felt, you knew, and you still…"

He takes another step closer, feeling a hit to his solar plexus when she steps back. Gasping, it is all he can do to get her name out. "Molly…"

Her tone full of the heartbreak she is exuding from every pore, she cries, "You still made me say it."

He feels his own eyes begin to fill with tears now. His own voice catching. "I…"

"I hate you!"

He wishes she had shouted, had wailed and hit him. But instead the words are whimpered, ugly and broken and this, is that what Eurus meant to happen? Was this her plan all along?

"I…"

Both gloves gone now, Molly takes another step away from him, her tears flowing unchecked. Pain and grief and hurt rolling off her in waves. "How _could_ you? How could you _do_ that? After everything I have _ever_ done for you? How could you do that to me when you _know_ what I…"

It's too much, this entire day, week, month has all been too much, and he breaks. "Because I didn't know!"

The silence after his anguished cry is broken by her timid, "What?"

"I thought… I thought I did." He looks down for a moment, before making himself meet her eyes. Softer now, anguished, he admits, "I thought I knew what it meant, but I didn't."

"Sherlock?"

He takes a small step forwards, pleased this time it does not result in her making another retreating step. Closing his eyes, he replays the threat his sister had made against her. Blinking his eyes open, he soaks up the sight of her. Alive. Safe. Beautiful. "I thought you were going to be killed in front of my eyes because you…"

Molly gives a gasp at that. "K… killed? How?"

Again the threat plays in his mind, a constant loop. Growling against the helplessness he still feels, he explodes. Hands flying around, eyes wild, he is on the cusp of losing control. "I thought your flat was rigged with explosives, is that what you needed to know? She told me your flat was rigged and if I couldn't get you to say… that, she was going to destroy your flat and make me watch!"

"What?"

But he is too lost in his own grief and pain to stop now. Fixing his gaze, sharp and intense on her, he is almost gasping his words in anguish, "So of course I made you say it, because what sort of life would I have if you weren't in it? How could I live in a world where I was the reason you died?"

"I…" she tries, and then she doesn't get to say anything else, because he is across the room and his lips are on hers and it is nothing like it's supposed to be. Fear and desperation and shock and despair urge him on, makes him kiss her deeper, bruising her lips with his force, but he just can't stop.

And then she slaps him, hard, pushes him away.

"No."

There are new tears streaming down her cheeks, matching the ones he knows he has on his.

Helpless, he reaches for her again. "Mol…"

But she shakes her head, moves further away. "No."

He freezes. "What? But…"

"I can't."

He gaps at her, lost.

She shakes her head again. "I can't."

And then she turns and runs away, the barely started autopsy lying abandoned on the table in her wake.

He does not follow.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	6. A Start

**A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 6: A start** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rated** : T  
 **Spoilers** : 4.03 The Final Problem  
 **Disclaimer** : Not mine

 **A/N** : Gah. Sorry for the massive delay in this chapter. I have spent the past two weeks trying to make what I have in my head come out in a way that is not completely shit. Hopefully I have managed.

* * *

 _Now a soft kiss, aye by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss – John Keats_

* * *

The sixth time he kisses her, it is a start.

More precisely, it is a beginning.

Of everything.

* * *

The next few weeks progress in some sort of haze.

He is aware of getting up each morning, of the repairs going on around him in his flat. The workmen picking up his life while he sits in his Mind Palace, drowning in the new memories of Eurus. His sister. His sister, whom he forgot. And really, what does that say about him? If he can write a member of his own family out of his memories, what else has he forgotten over time? He can be in his mind for hours at a time, piecing together his past from the repressed memories now coming to the fore. When he comes back to the present, minutes or hours later, he takes in the progress of the ongoing repairs with a slow blink. His flat is returning to normal. His memories are returning to what they should always have been. A young boy in place of a dog, a sister in place of a mystery.

But none of this, his sister and his friend and his past, can distract him from the pain in his heart.

For when he is not rearranging his memories to assimilate the new with the old, or the old with the new, he is tracing the memory of _her_.

The top she was wearing and the way her hair was falling over her shoulder the first night they met. Her cherry cardigan she took to wearing when the air conditioning system in the morgue broke down in the on position and it was the only thing she had in her locker with some sort of warmth that would still fit beneath her lab coat.

The way Molly dressed up _for him_ , hoop earrings and hair down, standing up to him even as he tore her down; and then later that same night, in her Christmas jumper, hair now in a plait over her shoulder. Make up scrubbed off, and emotions still raw.

The taste of her lip balm as he kissed her in a deserted room with only a dead body for company before having to leap to his supposed death. The way she didn't back down from him when he asked her to kill him.

The way she saved his life.

The way she always saves his life.

He tries to pin down the moment his feelings, (because yes, he can admit to having them now,) changed from affection of association to someone who was damned good at their job, to affection of _her_.

He's not sure.

And it is this, this uncertainty that has kept him from seeking her out.

Because, coward that he is, he has not seen her. Not spoken to her.

(What more could he possibly say, anyway?)

So when, three weeks after _that night_ he gets a text from her, asking him if he's willing to meet her, there is only one response he can give.

 _You know where to find me. SH._

* * *

It is late when she comes to him. Someone, a workman or possibly John has let her in as they left for the night, because she is sat on his newly acquired sofa when he returns from changing from suit to pyjamas in his bedroom. That she has managed to infiltrate his inner sanctum should not shock him; but still, that she is here, that she has finally come to him, makes him blink.

"Hello, Molly." His words are soft as he crosses the room, sinking into his chair. Close, but far enough away so as not to crowd her.

"Hi." She gives him a small smile, and it makes his insides quiver in a way that only she can produce.

And then they just stare at each other. He tries to start a conversation, but barring asking if she has kept his cell cultures alive for the past three weeks, he's at a complete loss as to where to being.

Finally, it seems she notices his discomfort, because she takes a breath. "I owe you an apology."

Well. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, this rates quite near the bottom. Indeed, if anyone should be apologising, surely it is him. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Molly."

She holds up a hand. "No, Sherlock. Let me say this. Please."

And the way she is looking at him, begging him with her eyes, makes him concede to her wishes. "Ok."

"Ok." And then she stops again. Looks down. Hands fidgeting in her lap now, wringing over and over in her obvious distress and unease.

He is itching to approach her, but given if he gets within five feet of her he is likely to kiss her again, and does not want a repeat of their last fateful kiss, he holds his ground.

Barely.

Fingers digging in to the leather of the arms of his chair, and he's close to the edge of his control, to just approach her anyway, consequences be dammed, when she starts again. "I owe you an apology. For what I made you do that night."

He sits forward, trying with his words to make her look at him. "I don't understand."

But she is stubborn, and keeps her gaze adverted. When it comes, her confession is given to the floor, not him. "Mycroft came to see me."

Sherlock sits back in his chair, his breath escaping him in a long sigh. "He did."

It is not a question, but she answers it anyway. "Yes. A few hours after you did, actually." And now she does look at him, and the look of despair on her face is like a punch to his solar plexus, and he gasps, even as she continues. "Had quite the story to tell."

Still feeling as if he cannot breathe properly, (just what lies has his brother been feeding her?) it is all he can do to gasp her name. "Molly…"

She shakes her head slightly, gaze now fixed on his hunched form. "He told me what happened. About your sister. What she did."

Talk about Eurus is still so new, he still does not know how to process it. So this time it is he who looks down. "Ah."

Eyes still adverted, he hears her shift on the sofa. It is only when the floorboard creaks that he realises she means to approach, and he looks up sharply. Something in his gaze must tell her to stay put, because she sinks back down to the couch, but closer than she was before. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. If I'd had any idea… I wouldn't have made you…"

He is shaking his head before she can finish her apology, not wanting to hear her apologise for something so completely out of both of their control. But, at the same time, needing to acknowledge the truth. "It needed to be said."

Molly nods, a sad smile on her face. "I… I know. Mycroft, he said there was a coffin, that people had died… that you thought I was in danger. About how I needed to say…"

He's shaking his head again as she tries to explain what she thinks he needs to hear. But she is wrong. So very wrong. "That's not what I meant."

Her eyes are wide when she glances up at him. "It's not?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Oh." Her hands have fallen to her sides now. "So what did you…?"

Looking up at her sharply, he asks, "Did you know I lied to you?"

She sighs, looking away. "Sherlock."

But now he is on a roll, and is not about to give up. Not when they are finally being honest with each other. "No, Molly. You have always had the ability to read me. Did you know I lied?"

She still doesn't look at him. "I don't…"

Again, he doesn't let her finish. "Because I didn't."

At his confession, her head snaps up again, confusion written over her face. "Didn't lie?"

He shakes his head, desperate for her to see what he cannot find the words for. "Didn't know. Not until later." He sighs. "But by the time I realised, it was too late to say anything."

Molly shrugs. "Oh. Well, I mean, I asked you to lie, I mean…"

Oh. He should have realised she didn't follow his jump. He does that, sometimes. Leaps from point to point, and gets annoyed when the others, usually John and/or Lestrade can't keep up. But this is Molly. And he cannot find it within himself to be annoyed with Molly. Not over something as important as this. So he takes a breath. Tries to explain. "No. I'm not talking about… about that."

And now her brow is furrowed in confusion again. "What are you talking about then?"

He answers her with a question of his own. "Do you remember when we met?"

"Sherlock…"

He can tell she is struggling to follow him again. But he needs her with him on this. Needs to explain. "Please Molly, just answer me."

She shrugs. "Vaguely. I mean, it was years ago."

He gives her a soft smile. It may have been years, but he can remember it like it was yesterday. His gaze softens and turns slightly away as he recalls the memory. "I do. You had a dark top on, hiding in the shadows of the pub, wanting to blend in. And I was hiding from a suspect, and you were there. I told you I was sorry for kissing you. Didn't think anything more of it, really. I didn't even know your name when I left." Eyes clear, he stares at her again. "You infiltrated my Mind Place that night."

This makes her blink. "I… what?"

He nods. "Mmm hmm." He gives her a rueful smile. "Didn't realise it until the next day, of course. Not until you spoke, and then I was faced with two images of you at once, and I didn't know how it happened, but there you were."

Molly is still blinking owlishly at him in shock. "I was in your Mind Palace?"

The past tense bothers him, and he shakes his head. "No."

"Oh." She sighs. Looks away for a moment before turning back to him. "But you just said…"

Interrupting her, he explains. "Not was. You're still there. You never left."

"I am?"

"Molly," he sighs, a tenderness he never thought to expel before coming into his voice, "of course you are."

"But… But why? I mean, why me?"

He tilts his mouth in a half smile. "You know the answer to that."

"I… I do?"

He chides her softly. "Molly."

And he can tell when she suddenly realises what he is failing to tell her. Her eyes go wide, and her breath hitches. Standing suddenly, she takes a step back, eyes darting across the room. "But… But no. I mean, no."

He stands too, desperate to keep her here. Desperate to make her _see_. "Why not? Why is it so hard to believe that I wasn't sorry for kissing you, that I wasn't lying to you on the phone?"

"Because. Because, well, I mean, look at me." And her eyes fall away to land on the floor at his feet. Still unwilling (unable?) to meet his gaze, she asks softly, "What can you possibly see in me?"

He cannot help the small step he takes towards her at that, a need to hold her clawing at his chest. His heart. "What I always see, Molly. You."

She must sense his approach, because she takes a step back from him, her hand held up before her. "Sherlock. Please. Please, I can't…"

He stops. Freezes. Eyes tracing over her, he finally asks the question that has been drowning him for the past few weeks. "Why not?"

"Because what happens to me when you realise you don't want me anymore? How am I supposed to get over you then?"

Tears are welling in her eyes now, and the sight of them makes him take another step forward. He wants to growl in frustration when she takes another one away from him. So he gives her the only answer he has, regardless of how exposed it makes him. "How am I supposed to get over you now?"

A tear breaks free over her cheek, and she lets out a startled, "What?"

He takes another step towards her, helpless to do anything else, and when she doesn't step away from him he lets hope build in his chest. "I did love you." Her eyes widen again, her hand coming up to brush against the tears, a protest forming on her lips, but before she can voice it he continues. "I'm sorry I never told you." He gives her another sad smile. "It took me a while to realise, and once I did I thought if I never said it you would be safe. You needed to be safe."

"Why?" The question is whispered, like it escaped without her permission. But he hears it.

"Because I couldn't, can't be the reason you die, don't you get that?" He takes another step towards her. "I cared about you too much to put a target on your head too. Even when you made it clear I was too late. So yes, I did love you. And I still…" He sighs again, looks down for a moment. "Only I was too blind to the truth that I didn't realise it really was love, because it was more than love, and wasn't just some stupid feeling in my stomach like everything else."

"Sherlock…"

And now he does look at her, piercing her with his gaze, all walls down, letting her see. "You have my heart, Molly Hooper."

She gasps. "I…"

But he is too close to the truth to let her interrupt now. "You have always had my heart. But if you don't want… if you can't…" He stops, chocking slightly on his words. Taking a breath, he tries again. "If this is it, if what you said is true and you can't, I would very much like to have it back, please."

Her reply is instant, and the small bubble of hope in his chest expands at her words. "You can't." She takes a breath, before asking, "I, I mean… How long?"

"Molly." He sighs. "Does it matter?"

But she is stubborn. Daring. "How long, Sherlock?"

He sighs. "I don't know. Since I met you sounds too cliché, but it's the best I can offer."

"Oh."

Slowly, he takes another step to her. There is less than three feet between them now. Softly, gently, he explains. "Eurus, my sister, she may be many things. Dangerous things. But she was always observant, and she got one thing right."

"Sherlock…" His name is a soft protest; one which he ignores.

"She knew what I would do to save you. She knew, more than I think anyone could ever know, how much I love you."

"I…"

"Because I do, Molly." His eyes trace over her features, committing them to memory once more. "My life changed for the better the day I met you. And even if you don't love me anymore, even if you can't, you deserve to know that." And then he does the hardest thing he has ever done in his life. More than jumping off a building, more than diving into hell. He turns and starts to walk away.

Only to be stopped by the feel of her hand grabbing at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"Wait. Where, where are you going?" Turning back, he is shocked to see she has started crying again.

"Molly?"

And then she is chocking out against her own sobs, "I didn't lie."

The bubble of hope grows again. Barely more than a whisper, he asks, "What?"

Molly swipes at the tears that are still forming. "You said you, you said it was true. What you said." She takes a breath. "I just, I didn't lie."

He can't help the smile that is forming on his own lips now, nor the slight sigh of relief. "You didn't."

She shakes her head. "No. No, Sherlock, I didn't lie." And then, always the brave one, she takes a step towards him. "And you can't have it back. Your heart. You can't…"

He can feel his heart swelling with hope again. "I can't?"

She shakes her head. "No."

Suddenly, he is unsure. He needs the words, needs the proof. "So you. I mean, you want… with me?"

Molly nods. "Yes. And I'm sorry." She takes another stop towards him, and there is less than a foot between them now. He is completely fine with that. "I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I got scared."

Gently, he reaches for her face, letting his finger trace the outline of her jaw. Softly, he says, "I'm sorry you didn't believe me."

Molly doesn't move back, but simply shakes her head in his palm. "That's not it."

He quirks an eyebrow. "It's not?"

She ducks her head slightly, her eyes dropping. "It's not that I didn't believe you, Sherlock." And then she raises her head, and meets his questioning gaze with her own shy one. "It's that I was terrified you would take it back."

He shakes his head, the hand not cradling her face coming up clasp her fingers. "Never."

Molly gives him a shy smile. "Oh. Ok, then."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "Ok… what?"

This time, her smile is more sure. "Ok. Ok as in yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes." And she nods.

His voice is a whisper, even as he leans closer to her. "Molly?"

Her own voice is not much louder. "Yeah?"

"I'm going to kiss you now."

And he gently covers her mouth with his. This kiss is soft, sweet. He traces the contours of her mouth slowly, learning her. He can feel the joy and relief seep through him, and he feels he can breathe for the first time in weeks. Possibly years. He pulls back slowly, taking in the way her breath hitches as he does so. He smiles, and sees her own lips begin to tilt up in answer, before he is leaning back down to her. The sixth kiss is quickly followed by the seventh. Then the eighth. Ninth. Tenth.

When they come up for air briefly, many minutes later, before he leans back down and kisses her yet again, he gives up counting.

(He's lost track, anyway.)

* * *

End.

Final thoughts?


End file.
